


The Lost in War Affair

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya are on separate assignments in the same country when they both become caught up in an invasion by Warsaw Pact forces. </p><p>They must complete their respective missions and escape before their presence is discovered, and they’re arrested for espionage. Will they escape intact or fall victim to the the history-making events unfolding around them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 50th Anniversary of 'The Man from U.N.C.L.E.' mini-bang challenge on mfu50bang, Live Journal.  
> My undying thanks for glennairl's amazing illustrations!

                                            

                                                                                                                                             

 

He walked the still busy streets of Prague with caution as there were just too many secret police lurking about. The political mood in around the country was in utter turmoil with different men jockeying for positions of power, and making for an unstable situation.

Their Soviet Masters were keeping a close eye on the region, as were other members of the Socialist Union, remaining wary as the unwelcome seeds of change were taking root. Those seedlings were being tended by the new first Secretary, Alexander Dubček...

Illya Kuryakin waded through the throngs of people on the narrow cobblestone street as they hurried to bow to their current favorite leader, when a band of demonstrators appeared out of nowhere;  these impromptu gatherings with people of all ages carrying signs in protest of the political situation, and potential invasion by the troops of Leonid Brezhnev as well as those from the other member nations of the Warsaw Pact.

The people crowding the street were shouting rhetoric without truly listening to their own words, and were simply spouting back the rants of others; that was what it sounded like to him.  He grew up in that sort of mindless atmosphere and didn’t miss it.

It really didn’t matter what they were verbalizing at the moment, as Kuryakins focus had been the assignment he’d been tasked with, and that had now been completed. At the moment his mind was trained on the fact that he needed to get out of ‘Dodge’ as his partner Napoleon liked to say.

The weather was cold and damp, not like August was supposed to be in this part of the world, and he pulled up the collar of his black trench coat to ward off the chill. Illya rounded the corner, escaping the demonstrators and entering a lower class neighborhood;  seeing political graffiti scrawled there on the walls and inside the doorways of the tenements. Here no one was outside since it was too dangerous, especially as the sun faded away into night.

He passed under the light of a street lamp, for a moment illuminating his golden hair, and he stepped away from its brightness, trying to remain invisible in the shadows. He shrugged his jacket, drawing it tightly about him, and suddenly became aware of of how quiet it had become. There wasn’t a sound at all, giving him a nervous feeling, as if it were the calm before the storm.

 The Russian’s instincts served him well as the silence was shattered with a thunderous explosion, sending deadly shards of glass and debris cascading down on him. There were screams and fires erupting around him with unexpected rapidity; the pulsating wail of sirens filled the air.  His only thought was that he had to get out of here. Illya ran, heading down side streets one after another, turning left and right until he was far away from the destruction that was taking place.

No doubt countless numbers of innocents would suffer this night, as surely more terroristic acts would take place. The country was a pressure cooker, ready to explode...or perhaps that was happening already?

Time passed slowly as Kuryakin crept along the streets, keeping to the walls and alcoves until he finally reached his seedy hotel; stashing the microfilm he had procured earlier that afternoon in a safe place. Pulling his communicator from his pocket; he contacted New York. He was far enough from the turmoil for now, but he knew his night would not be a restful one.

“Open Channel D- Overseas relay, Waverly.” He glanced at his wristwatch, calculating the time to be around six in the evening there, but the previous day, as it was near midnight here.”

“Hi Illya, ummm, I mean Mr. Kuryakin,” Dawn Montalbano in Communications answered the call.

“Yes hello, please put me through to Mr. Waverly. Priority.”

There was no reply until he heard the Old Man’s voice. “Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly cleared his throat. No doubt he was having his evening tea, like clockwork.

“I have the microfilm sir and will endeavor to get out of the country tomorrow morning by train.  A substantial unrest is occurring at the moment, with bombs going off around the city.  I suspect the military will be rolling in to intervene, if they have not already arrived.”

“Not a surprise young man, as we are aware of Warsaw Pact troops staged along the border should they be needed. This dissention and attempt at reform, especially the decentralization of administrative authority, has not been well received well by the Kremlin. It’s only a matter of time before military action takes place if it hasn’t begun already. Yes, tomorrow morning at the latest Mr. Kuryakin. I do not want you getting caught up in any police action. Contact me once you’ve crossed the border to Austria. Waverly Out.”

Illya spoke into his communicator once again.”Dawn,” he addressed the tech he suspected had been listening in,”please connect me with Mr. Solo.”

“Umm sure Illya. When are you coming home...you promised me that dinner you know.”

Kuryakin, a man usually able to control his reactions, blushed with embarrassment as he’d forgotten about the dinner date he’d made in haste with the girl… a thanks for her help with some information.

“My dear, you know I cannot discuss such matters. Trust me when I say, you will be made aware when I return as I will personally let you know. I am looking forward to a lovely evening with you. You decide where you would like to eat, and perhaps some dancing afterwards.” He figured taking a page from Solo’s playbook would work like a charm and so it did, as the girl was practically giddy at her end.

“Dawn?”

“Yes Illya I’m sorry. I’m just really looking forward to getting together with you, that’s all.”

“As am I,” he lied,”...now, please. Mr. Solo?”

“Oh sorry...bye Illya.”

“Good bye Dawn.

“And which Dawn would that be?” Napoleon’s voice answered.”Dawn in the secretarial pool, Dawn in Section VII, Dawn in Communications or is there one I’ve missed.”

“Napoleon, you hardly miss a trick when it comes to the ladies at headquarters and as to which one; that is none of your business,” Illya quickly changed topics. “Things are getting very dicey here. Lots of explosions going off throughout the city and fires burning as well. It is time to get out of the country, and quickly my friend.”

“Thanks for the head’s up. Nothing’s happened here as of yet, but Waverly warned me that troops have moved nearby for a quick occupation. All we can do is make a hasty retreat.  Stay safe tovarisch.”

“You as well my friend. I suggest we maintain our anonymity and keep to radio silence. See you in Austria. Kuryakin out.”

There was nothing Illya could do but wait out things out in darkness. Sirens continued to sound around the city.  Like an old friend, the night would keep him safe until the morning arrived, allowing him to make his way to the railway station at Praha Masarykovo nádraží  located in the New Town area of Prague.

He stared out his hotel room window, keeping his face back to the shadows; holding his Special against his chest as the flashes from more explosions and fires lit up the night sky. A storm blew in later on, adding lightning and the rumblings of thunder to the cacophony in the streets; soothing raindrops would at least help to quench the flames. The rhythmic sound of the rain falling finally lured him to sleep.

Illya closed his eyes as he propped himself up with his pillow in his bed, half-dreaming of the speeches of a tyrant who mesmerized the German people into nearly destroying Europe. It was like a cancer that spread across the continent…. was that happening now or were there changes taking place for the good? Only time would tell he supposed.

He woke up in the middle of the night with a gasp as a loud boom shook him from his sleep, though it was only a sharp thunderclap. _Dreaming he was back at the little red dacha his family lived outside of Kyiv, he was leaning against the stone wall outside in the back that his father had never completed.*_

_The sky was glowing red from the city as it burned. There were loud explosions from the heavy artillery of the Germans as they advanced on the poorly defended Kyiv, as most of the Red Army tasked with saving the city had abandoned it, though not before setting numerous booby traps._

As a child, he was fascinated by the concussions from the shelling,  he could feel them resonate throughout his body, though they were far away, reverberating in the ground beneath his feet.

 _“Come inside Illyusha,_ ” his babushka called,” _You do not want to see our city die do you?”_

Illya hadn’t dreamt of his grandmother in a long time, and that emotion mixed with a loud clap of thunder woke him, making his heart pound.

 

Silence returned with the rising of the sun, and the U.N.C.L.E. agent stepped out to the deserted streets;  he raised his nose, sniffing the air as he detected the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder.

During the night, tanks had rolled in, sending the city into a frenzy. Many of it’s citizens though ill-equipped, were fighting and protesting against the occupying troops, though a number of people were welcoming them with open arms and flowers.

This Russian hurried his way to the railway station hoping it was still intact and that he could even get out for that matter. If travel were shut down, he would be hard pressed to find an alternate means of transportation. Automobiles were no doubt being stopped at checkpoints, and if he were spotted…he would be screwed.  The KGB would surely be lurking there, with their lists of most wanted, those deemed traitors and Illya’s name would definitely be on that list.

Though his transfer was authorized by Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye...the GRU, the secret police refused to acknowledge it. They were dealing now from a position of strength within the Kremlin, as GRU was not in favor at the moment.  The fact that Kuryakin was told by this superiors at GRU not to spy on U.N.C.L.E. or the Americans was ignored and KGB insisted he do so.  His refusal sealed his fate in their eyes, and for that reason they had been dogging him on and off for years...

Carrying nothing with him but a rolled up newspaper tucked under his arm and ignoring the rumblings of his hungry belly; Illya finally arrived at the station. It had taken more time than he’d anticipated as it was slow going.  Not everyone was abandoning the city and life was continuing in spite of the previous nights terror. There were surprising numbers of people  on the streets as some fires still raged, and of course there were now the omnipresent Soviet tanks and armored vehicles.

Kuryakin had put on his wire-rimmed spectacles, trying to look as innocuous as possible, and was wearing a tweed jacket along with his usual black turtleneck and trousers.

The microfilm he carried, safely tucked within the hollowed-out heel of his shoe, would remain invisible if he were stopped and searched. Though carrying his gun could cause him trouble in the long run.

As expected the railway station was busy, bursting with people; there was military police presence and soldiers everywhere.  Anyone boarding a train was being being searched.

He hated to do it, but it was time to abandon his gun and holster. Illya went into the mens room near the platform and removed it, burying it in a trash can. After purchasing a round-trip ticket that seemed more expensive than it should have been, he stepped up in line, waiting to be searched.

_“Papíry, prosím?”_

Illya handed over his false passport and travel documents identifying him as a professor at the University there in Prague.

The military police officer looked at his face scrutinizing it and the photo in the documents.

“And why are you going to Austria...trying to escape are you?” He reached out pulling Illya by the lapels and stared at him.

                                                  

Kuryakin changed the sound of his voice, taking on a soft spoken, near epicene tone. His instincts told him to remain calm but as a civilian there would be a near panic if someone had lain hands on such a person.

“Please…” Illya’s eye went wide. “I have done nothing wrong and I am not trying to escape. As you see I have a return ticket in four days time. I am a guest speaker at a symposium being held at the University of Vienna. When that is concluded, I am returning home. I have a wife to see to and I do have classes to teach at our University...which I hope will be still here when I return. This protesting and violence are terrible. Did you know a young man recently resorted to self-immolation as a means of protest?  Can you imagine that….setting oneself on fire? The thought of it is most unsettling. I do hope all this will be over quickly.”

It seemed as though Illya’s attempted chatter was being completely ignored, giving him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and that made him nervous, but he held his ground, maintaining his cover.

“You have a wife?” The policeman looked at him almost laughingly.

“Yes I do. Her name is Jolana and she is expecting our first child in a few months.” Illya decided that would be as much information he would add to his cover story, otherwise too many details could potentially trip him up into making a mistake.  That tidbit about a wife, however, his interrogator found amusing and the man let out a momentary belly laugh as he released the agent’s lapel.  Illya supposed he’d made himself look mousy enough for the man to think no woman would have him.

“And what is it you are speaking about in Vienna?” The officer asked, though there was still a look of suspicion on his face.

“Shrödingers cat...having to do with quantum physics,” Kuryakin answered blandly, holding up a brochure for a science symposium, the date of which had been torn away.

“Schrödingers cat? You are talking about a cat?” The man nearly choked on his words.

“It is merely the name of a theory, not a real cat,” Illya confidently smiled  as he began to babble on again.

“It is a thought experiment, sometimes described as a paradox. It was devised by an Austrian physicist named Schrödinger and illustrates what was seen as the problem of the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics applied to everyday objects, resulting in a contradiction with common sense. The scenario presents a cat that may be both alive and dead, depending on an earlier random event….”  

“Enough, enough,” the policeman interrupted him, waving his hands in surrender. He decided he hated intellectuals with their way of talking down to people, attempting to make them feel stupid. “ You have no luggage with you?”

“I keep some clothing at the University apartments in Vienna, as I travel there frequently...Officer Jelinek,” Illya casually glanced at the man’s name tag pinned to the left breast of his green uniform along with his badge.” The blond agent looked him straight in the eye, not in a challenging fashion, but one filled with honesty and innocence.

“Very well, everything seems to be in order,” Jelinek huffed.” You may board now.”

Illya was handed his papers and after nodding his thanks, bowing a few times; he turned to hurry along onto the train.

Jelineck called after him,“You are lucky Professor, this it the last train to Austria, as service here is being shut down at noon. They are investigating those bombings last night; so many people were injured...I will make no statement as to who the guilty parties are, though I curse them.” He waved Illya off with his hand. “Good luck with your speech.”

Kuryakin again nodded his thanks as he climbed the steps, breathing a sigh of relief, and settling himself into his seat. A short while later the train finally lurched and his journey to Austria began…or so he thought. The only thing Illya heard now was the clickety-clack of the metal wheels on the track; inside the car itself things had settled into the sounds of silence, allowing him to doze off, this time into a light but dreamless sleep.

Barring any unforeseen incidents, the Russian would meet his partner just over the border in Austria. That thought put him at ease as he closed his eyes.

 

 

*ref: ["Beginnings"](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6767104/1/Beginnings)

 


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon Solo’s assignment was to escort to Vienna, a Czech mechanical engineer and scientist named Drahomir Andrasko, whose major research was in the development of efficient modeling and control of robot dynamics. His work was on parallel with the world renowned Yugoslavian scientist, Miomir Vukobratović, who was a pioneer in humanoid robotics.

Andrasko, being proactive in his suspicions of the political situation in his home country contacted U.N.C.L.E. to help him get out before trouble began, as the Americans were hesitant to intervene. They and the world chose to only watch as events unfolded.

Napoleon wandered with a purpose along the _Široka_  Street in the town of  _Český Krumlov,_  until he finally located the address to a small apartment building and after climbing the stairs to the third floor, he knocked on the door marked 3C.

 _“Kdo je to?_ A voice called from within.

Not knowing the language, Solo had memorized just enough words to help him get by along with the pass phrase to identify himself as being from U.N.C.L.E.

_“Jmenuji se Solo. Můj strýc mě poslal panu Andrasko k opravě mechanické panenky_My name is Solo. My Uncle sent me to Mr. Andrasko in order to repair mechanical dolls.”_

The door opened slowly with the white-haired occupant looking the dark-haired stranger in the black trench coat up and down.

“Please come in Mr. Solo. I have been waiting for you. I am Drahomir Andrasko. Thank you for coming to my assistance.”

“Not a problem Professor,” Solo looked around the sparsely furnished room, for some reason it reminded him of Kuryakin’s place.

“You do not speak Czech, I take it,” the professor smiled.

“Well no not exactly. You could tell huh?”

The old man nodded. “Your pronunciation was fair, but your accent was atrocious. I speak good English so we will converse in that and I will translate Czech for you if needed.

Napoleon crinkled his nose with a huff. “Critics,” he thought to himself,“Must be something to do with the Slavic blood...”

Noting a small suitcase waiting by the door as well as a briefcase and a black umbrella; he guessed the professor was ready to go, making Solo thankful not to have to order the man to travel light.

Andrasko had one last look around his home...there were no photographs, nothing of a personal nature that the American could see, and he watched as the man simply closed the door and locked it after them.

Napoleon led the way downstairs to the street and the awaiting car he’d parked not far away. It was a dark blue _Tatra_ 603, a large rear-engined luxury vehicle made by a Czechoslovak company of the same name. Generally such a car was only driven by high ranking party officials, that in and of itself might help avoid prying eyes….making people think he and his passenger should not be trifled with.

They climbed into the car and all looked to be clear sailing as they headed down _Široka_ street. 

It consisted of beautiful Baroque-style buildings housing cafés, small shops and an old-town square.  There was a rather spectacular castle of which Andrasko spoke proudly, saying it was the second largest in all of Czechoslovakia. The appearance of the place had changed little since the 18th century with the buildings being well maintained and restored after the war.   

The scientist seemed a bit melancholy at leaving his home, and that was understandable. Solo often sensed such feelings with Illya, though the Russian rarely spoke of his life back in Russia. He couldn’t quite imagine ever having to give up the United States, and perhaps never see it again. Then again, if he had no family, friends or ties to keep him there, as it it had been with his partner, Napoleon supposed it might not be that awful. It was one thing to imagine it, but it was a different thing to stand in another mans shoes.

As he casually drove, Solo maintained a steady speed. There were people scurrying along the sidewalks, moving with a sense of purpose...perhaps a nervousness?

The older man reached out toward the dashboard, turning on the car radio but it was ominously silent, with no signal at all on any station.

Outside everything became oddly quiet...too quiet, and Napoleon had a sudden niggling feeling as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His instincts were spot on as troops suddenly appeared;  their olive green uniforms clearly marked with the emblem of the Soviet Union. In their hands were Kalashnikov rifles and they pointed them at people on the streets, ordering them to get indoors or be shot.

“We just might be in a bit of trouble Professor,” Napoleon had to say it, though he knew it would frighten the man.

Solo's mind raced, wondering if something of significance had triggered their move. Given the tensions due to Alexander Dubcek’s liberalism, something just might have happened to ramp things up to high.  He'd been made aware troops of troops being staged along the north-east and south-eastern borders, but what event if any made them make their move now, Solo had no clue.  When he spotted soldiers wearing uniforms from Poland and Bulgaria, that raised his worries to red alert.

This was a full-scale invasion.

Napoleon continued to slowly drive down the narrow city street when a tank rolled down at the end of block, seemingly out of nowhere and blocking all traffic.  

Moments later there were explosions not from the tanks, but from the looks of it, Molotov cocktails.  A group of young people were flinging the fiery petrol bombs at the tank, for all the good it would do. They were nothing that could cause any major damage or halt the hulking machine’s advance.

The turret on the tank turned, and then **BOOM!** It returned fire. Cars exploded, erupting into flames, terrified people ran in panic as they tried to get out of the way, and among them now were Solo and his charge.

“Out of the car now!” Solo barked, and he watched as the Professor reached to the back seat for his suitcase.

“Forget it. Now move!”

“No Mr. Solo there is something I must retrieve...that and my notes.” Andrasko grabbed a small silver metallic box from his valise along with his briefcase, and of all things, the umbrella... finally rejoining the American.

There was another ear shattering **BOOM** … a shot from a second tank that rolled in at the opposite end of the street, and the two men watched in horror as their abandoned car burst into a fireball with a loud explosion, sending debris in every direction, knocking them both to the ground.

Solo helped the professor to his feet and the two dashed along the street, weaving down another block, then another, trying to escape the carnage. They found themselves at the edge of town, and a part of it with which Drahomir was unfamiliar. As a last resort they followed a few locals who led them to the outskirts of the city, heading towards the surrounding forest.

Once miles away, the group of fifteen or so people were joined by more escapees, or perhaps refugees was the better term.  Some carried suitcases, baskets of food, and there were those who had only the clothes on their backs.

“Drahomir could you see if you can find out where they’re heading?” Napoleon asked, as he didn’t want to continue to follow them blindly if it would be taking them closer to more danger.

The professor touched a young man on the arm as they’d stopped to rest, asking him the question.

 _“Kam jdeš_?”

The brown-haired boy, perhaps fourteen or so, looked shell-shocked, and turned slowly to respond.

_“Jedeme do Rakouska.”_

“We are going to Austria,” Drahomir translated.

“Do you know how far we are from the border?” Asked Solo.

_“Jak je to daleko?”_

The boy shrugged.

Napoleon nodded his thanks...he had no idea the distance, only the route they would have taken by car from _Český Krumlov_ to the Austrian border. It was a small town in Southern Bohemia, and like Prague, it was situated on the Vltava River.

He never paid attention to mileage and only scrutinized his map for the correct route plotted out for him by HQ. Knowing his propensity for getting lost, he had planned to carefully keep to those directions, but the map along with their transportation was now long gone. By car Napoleon knew from the city it was roughly 27 km to the Austrian border, but on foot, through rough terrain, this was a journey that he wouldn’t relish.

The winds were beginning to pick up, rustling the leaves on the surrounding trees.

 _“Déšť se blíží,”_ a man turned, speaking to Andrasko.

“He says rain is coming.”

For once Napoleon was glad he was wearing his trench coat. The professor still had a death-grip on his briefcase and umbrella and in the long run it was rather fortuitous he’d grabbed it after all. 

It was slow going and Solo let his thoughts wander, wondering if Illya was all right.  Though they’d agreed on radio silence, he thought it best to contact the Russian to fill him in on the situation and to see what was happening in Prague...if Illya was even still there. Napoleon hoped he wasn’t and was well on his way to Austria.

Solo excused himself from the professor, saying he needed to relieve himself, and once behind a tree he opened his communicator.

“Channel F-Kuryakin.”  He waited for a response but heard only static...that wasn’t good.  

“Channel D-Overseas relay-Waverly.”

"Yes Mr. Solo, what have you to report?” The Old Man responded.

Napoleon apprised Waverly of the situation, and after a few minutes, headquarters through a series of satellite relays, was able to get a lock on his signal. It indicated they were approximately 22 kilometres from the Austrian border. That was about as much help as could be given; crossing the border and traveling that far in country with any sort of vehicles or aircraft could only end up in their destruction at the hands of the occupying Warsaw Pact troops.

 “I’m afraid Mr. Solo you are on your own for the moment.”

“Yes sir, I understand. Have you heard anything from Mr. Kuryakin? I haven’t been able to raise him.”

“Last contact with your partner was in the early morning hours. His plan was to try to get out by train if possible, but I suspect that hasn’t happened. There were reports of a major train derailment, possibly sabotage. If he was on that train...well, let us say the situation is more volatile in Prague.”

“Yes sir. I’ll contact you as soon as we near the crossing. Out.”  

That was news Solo didn’t need to hear. The thought of his partner being dead...no, not Illya; the man was a survivor.  Napoleon’s gut told him the Russian was alive, he just had to be. Prague might as well have been on the other side of the world, though it was only 180 km away. There was nothing he could do. For once he couldn’t be there to cover his partner’s back.

There was a clap of thunder, making most of the refugees duck for cover thinking it was gunfire. Once they realized it wasn’t they began their trek again.

A steady rain began to fall as Napoleon Solo trudged along the quickly muddying path with the ever growing band of lost souls fleeing the invasion that had erupted around them.  Their numbers had grown to somewhere around fifty, men women...lots of children, though the American agent hoped there would be no more additions. The larger the group, the easier they'd be to spot from the air.

They’d avoided the roads, seeking cover among the trees and hidden paths there in the forest as they retreated from the city. He figured some of these people had a lay of the land, and it was best to stick with them for the moment.

The professor, being in his seventies, was having trouble keeping up, finding it necessary for Napoleon to help support the man from time to time as they slowly moved along in their ever-growing group of raggle taggle refugees.

It was surprisingly quiet but for the sounds of children crying, breaking the silence now and then; though that was quickly taken care of by the adults lest they be heard and discovered.

Their little part of the world had become the victim of yet another incursion into lands deemed historically the property of the State as soldiers came barreling through with their armored vehicles, and soldiers. Dubcek's policies had brought them down upon his country...

 There were those who welcomed the invading troops with open arms, and those who remained hidden in their homes; terrified to speak their minds for fear of reprisal, and others who protested as they boldly approached the soldiers and tanks, shouting for them to go home while putting flowers in the muzzles of their guns.

Lastly there were these poor souls who hoped to regain their freedom and live in peace in a land  not their own,  living the life of a refugee...a stranger in a strange land, yet still one in which they were safe from tyranny, for now. Solo only hoped Austria would welcome these people with open arms.

If Kuryakin were picked up by troops from his home country and his identity discovered, it would go badly for him guaranteed, as there were those in the Soviet Union who called him ‘traitor,’ and wanted to see him dead.  He dreaded the thought of Illya being in the hands of the KGB, the pain and suffering they’d put him through would be unimaginable.

Even Waverly’s long arm of influence wouldn’t be able to help the Russian from his own people.

Though being ever the optimist, Napoleon had to convince himself his partner would somehow evade capture, since Illya, as an U.N.C.L.E. agent extraordinaire,  was good at staying ‘invisible.’

There was no option to go back and look for him. The country was in a state of chaos, with people fleeing everywhere.

Fires had erupted, perhaps set by those choosing to leave their small country; if they had to surrender it then better leave it in ruin. Let their invaders deal with that aftermath was perhaps their rationale...sort of a 'scorched earth' way of thinking.

Napoleon had tried several times to contact his partner but there was only static. Either Illya lost his communicator, or, well, Napoleon didn’t want to think about the other possibility hinted at by Waverly.  It wasn’t active, so headquarters wasn’t able to get a fix on Illyas whereabouts.

As Solo and Andrasko walked among the group of people that had grown in numbers, the American spotted a small child curled up on the ground, nearly hidden by tree branches and undergrowth. She was whimpering and shivering, even though it was August.

Napoleon thought it was odd there was no one with her. The girl was completely alone, perhaps somehow lost in the confusion.

Kneeling beside her, and removing his jacket; he wrapped it around her and scooped the wet child up in his arms.  She weighed next to nothing and couldn’t have been any more than four or five years old.”

“It’s all right sweetheart, you’re safe with me,” he whispered to her reassuringly as he stroked her dark wet hair, rocking her gently in his arms. She was burning up with fever...not a good sign.

Andrasko translated for Solo, and the child gave him a weak smile as she snuggled up against him, but said nothing.

Napoleon continued speaking to her softly as he walked along the path, holding her close to him. Though she didn’t understand his words, there was no need for a translation as the tone of voice he used with her was universal.

                                                           

 Illya knew the language but he wasn’t here, so Andrasko would have to do as a translator. Of course that helped, but the man just wasn’t Kuryakin and couldn't offer the same insights, or have his back. ”Damn,” the American swore; his thoughts going to his partner again, hoping he was safe.

 The rain finally came down in torrents, forcing them to stop. Though hiding beneath the trees while thunder rumbled wasn’t exactly the safest thing to do; there was no choice.

They took their chances with Mother Nature, which at the moment seemed to have better odds than having stayed back in _Český Krumlov..._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Illya settled into his seat, burying his nose in his newspaper to hide his face, but what he really wanted to do was to go to sleep. Last night had given him little rest and the stress, which he was still feeling, had a way of sapping one’s energy.

The motion of the train, with the repetitious sound of the clickity-clack of the wheels against the tracks began to lull him to sleep, though periodically he’d jerk his head, trying to open his eyes wide to fight it.  

It was no use, he realized that now, and looking around the packed railway car for anyone suspicious; Illya finally satisfied himself it was safe enough and closed his eyes, leaning his head down against his shoulder and that against the window pane.

The steady rocking drew him to a much needed sleep, but then the dreams began.

_He was walking through a noisy city, with large trucks roaring up and down along the streets; the backs of which were filled with men...sad-eyed men who stared out into nothingness._

_The vehicles stopped, and soldiers jumped down, coming towards him. He was a child again and_ _became aware his hand was being held by a woman, it felt so little within her grasp…”_

_Mama,” he moaned._

_His mother’s voice called out to him, letting him go. ”Run!”_

_Illya obeyed, and shoved through the crowds of people milling about, standing still like animals waiting to be slaughtered. There were bombs going off everywhere with the noise becoming deafening .*_

Jerking awake, Illya found himself suddenly being tossed like a rag doll through the air as the train left the tracks.  There’d been an explosion, and every car went rolling, twisting as they snaked along like a toy; they were all connected and pulled one after the other, careening over the landscape. Glass shattered everywhere and he felt a sharp pain.  

Illya raised his head after he hit the ground, long enough to see what was left of the train erupt into flames.

                                               

Though he felt hands grabbing at him, he couldn’t move. At last he passed out to the putrid smell of burning bodies, wood and vinyl. When the Russian opened his eyes again, he found a wet compress on his forehead, and the odor of dust and old wood assaulted his nostrils.

 _“Viz Jeho oči jsou modré ... Já ti to říkal_see his eyes are blue. I told you so.”_  He heard a female voice speak.  _“Dobrý den, jak se cítíte_hello, how are you feeling?”_

The blond hesitated, trying to form the answer but there were too many words in his head…. different languages. Which one was right?  He had to focus to discover the answer, though why he had to do that, he didn’t know. 

_"Hmmm, mám bolesti hlavy. Jiné, než si myslím, že jsem v pořádku_ hmmm, I have a headache, but other than that I think I am fine.”_

“What’s your name?”She asked.

He struggled, thinking hard before responding. “I do not know...you not know me?”

“No, we pulled you from a train wreck just outside the city. We think it was the invading army who did it to stop people from fleeing across the border to Austria.. which ones did it though, we’re not sure. Someone said it was the Bulgarians or the Russians."

"There’s Poles, and East German troops as well swarming all over the country,” a young man spoke up.

“Where is my wallet, that will surely have my name...identification,” Illya said.

“Your pockets were empty except for this broken pen,” he held it up for Illya to see it was snapped into two pieces.  He reached out, taking it from her, feeling the need to hide it, and stuck it back in his breast pocket.  He paid a price for the effort as his body reacted with spasms of pain. He had spoken too soon about being fine.

“There were looters going through the clothing of the dead and injured...it was awful. We chased them off with sticks and rocks,” the girl said.

Illya focused on her face, trying to will his pain to go away. She was a pretty thing; dark blonde hair with hints of red, and a few freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.  Her eyes were deep blue-grey in color and he reckoned she was in her early to mid-twenties perhaps.  

The boy standing beside her had a slightly different hair color, but by his features it was easy to guess the two were related.

“May I ask your names so that I might thank you properly,” Illya inquired as he hiked himself up with his elbows; wincing as he did so. Everything started to spin, and he froze where he was, fearing for a second that further movement would make it worse.

“I am Magdalene Hruska and this is my brother Hugo,” she tried smiling as she gently pushed him back down on the blanket they’d laid out for him.

“Thank you for helping me Magdalene and Hugo...but I must be going,” Illya tried getting up again.  That did it, his stomach retaliated and he fell forward to his hands and knees, retching until he had nothing left in his stomach.

“Oh no, you’re hurt and you don’t even know your own name,” Magdalene said. “And besides, how do you know where it is you have to go?”

“I do not know, I just...know I have to not be _here_...where is here?” It hurt to turn his head as he tried to look around once he sat back, leaning against the wall.

“Mister, we all feel that way but there’s no escaping,” Hugo said. “Marshall law has been declared, tanks have entered the cities.  People are protesting the occupation and some have died for it. There’s been lots of explosions everywhere, and more fires...and well the train too.”

“I know, I recall the explosions last night as I was…”

“You were what?”

“I do not remember anything other than being in Prague... the explosions lighting up the night sky and,” He paused,”the thunder and lighting. I hid...I was afraid.” Illya suddenly felt very vulnerable saying that, but it was a vulnerability that seemed distant to him, something from long ago and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He was filled with a sense of panic...what was his name, did he have a job, a family. Where was his home? He understood what this young woman was saying to him...through his head was filled with different words swirling about.  To look at him though, no one would have guessed the fear and confusion that was rising from within him.

“Well since you don’t remember your name, we need to call you something other than 'hey you,” Magdalene said. "Hmmm, you have a rather angelic face...so I will call you Anděl.”

Illya blushed at that, but gave her no argument. It would have to do for now. Angel...his mind translated it to so many languages...English, French, Italian, German...Russian...there were so many others. How could he know this? Who was he?  

He gathered himself, subduing his thoughts and compartmentalizing his emotions so they were under control. That was alway what he did since he was a child.  “Why did he remember that?”

“Where are we?” He asked again, his attention finally focused.

“We are in beneath St. James church near the city square. Since Dubček took power the government granted more religious freedom...so it was nothing for people to seek solace here with all that was happening,” the girl answered. "I fear that will change again and we will return to the old ways before Dubček's reforms."

  
“Night is falling, so best to stay hidden as there are too many soldiers patrolling the streets. I hear they are taking people into custody,” Hugo added.

His sister disappeared, returning with some bread,  a bowl of cold broth and more water.  

“Do you think you can eat Anděl?”  This time she let him sit up, though she placed another cold compress on his head. “I’m sorry this is the best I can do right now. We don’t want to light a fire.”

Illya took the food from her, nodding his gratitude and the brother and sister watched in amazement as he quickly wolfed it down.

Magdalene took the empty bowl from him when he finished.” Well your appetite seems to be good. I guess you were pretty hungry.”

“I am always hungry…” Illya paused, wondering how he could know that but not who he was.

Sirens broke the silence in the distance as there were more explosions lighting the darkening sky with an orange glow as parts of the city continued to burn.

Hugo put an old piece of burlap across the single window that looked out to the street level. There would be no light for them tonight. Illya looked about in the shadows, seeing a few more people huddled together, hiding beneath the stairs.  They all seemed to be around the same age, mid-twenties at most; all staring out into nothingness with wide eyes filled with fear and dread, just like the people in his dream.

Someone whimpered and Magdalene disappeared to comfort them.

“Shussh, Tereza. It will be all right. You must not be afraid,” Illya overheard her whispering. 

“But Magdalene, what about my family? They could be dead.’

“All our families might be...so we must pray for their safety and ours.”

“How can you talk of prayer,” another boy said.” There is no God.”

“You believe that nonsense they taught us in school? Someone said.

"It is the old ones who still believe, but I do not,” the other protested.

“Maybe you should have paid attention and listened to your elders Slavomir.”

“Quiet you two,” Hugo whispered, ending the hushed argument.” There are voices outside on the street and they might hear you.”

That was enough to silence everyone.

 

Illya leaned back against the brick wall, wrapping himself in his blanket, remaining quiet while trying to jump start his brain...but to no avail.  He finally closed his eyes, falling into a much needed sleep.

Again the same dream visited him, and the familiarity he felt told him he’d dreamt it before.  The woman telling him to run, his pushing through the crowds of people who were so tall, much bigger than he was.  There were screams and gunshots.  He woke up with a gasp, sweating, to the musty smell of the basement.

“Anděl are you all right?” Magdalene asked. She was seated beside him, and without thinking she reached out, brushing his blond hair from his eyes, and wiping the sweat from his brow with her scarf. At first Illya flinched, feeling the urge to react defensively, but he stopped himself. Her touch felt comforting, almost familiar.

“Tomorrow we move to a different hiding place. Our numbers are growing and we need the space as well as more food.We are contemplating forming a resistance movement.” She looked into his eyes.” Are you sure you are all right?”

“Yes, thank you….just a bad dream, nothing more.” He took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of it.

This time it was Magdalene’s turn to blush...

 

The next day they left the relative safety of the church, one by one as a large group of young people might cause suspicio as they headed for the ruins of a cathedral at the edge of the city.  There Hugo explained they would mount a counter insurgency against the invading troops as he fiddled with wires and what looked like an explosive compound.

“We will not greet them by sticking flowers in the muzzles of their guns, like so many fools are doing,” Hugo growled. “Have they no sense of national pride? What Dubcek is doing will free us from the tyranny of the Soviet Union. We will still be a Communist country, just not under the thumb of Brezhnev and Moscow.”

Illya kept quiet, until Hugo was finished speaking. “You think you can defeat the might of the Warsaw Pact troops? I have heard there are over half-million of them occupying the country.”

“We may not be able to defeat them, but we can at least cause them some pain and let them know there are still patriots in Czechoslovakia. Besides what would you know….you look like the bookworm type.

“Be careful Hugo,” Illya smiled ruefully,” do not judge a book by it’s cover.”

He pulled the contraption the young man had been working on in front of him and started reconnecting and moving the wires.  After fussing with them a few more minutes Illya turned to Hugo.

"What are you using as your explosive?”

“Gun powder mainly, from these,”He held up a handful of bullets.

Illya shook his head, mumbling the word ‘amateurs’ to himself. “Do you have access to acetone, hydrogen peroxide, and sulfuric acid? “

“Why yes I think I can find those at the local chemist,” Magdalene interrupted.

“Good, when you can, send someone out for those and as much as you can find. I will need containers...small jars will do with lids. And see if they can get some petrol, and rags we can use to make Molotov cocktails, and matches or cigarette lighters too."

A few hours later Kuryakin had the chemical bombs assembled and ready to go, while letting the others assemble the Molotovs.

After explaining how the chemical bombs would work the students asked him in admiration. “Where did you learn to do such things.”

Illya looked at them with a blank stare, unable to answer their question.

Once their bombs were gathered along with an array of the Molotov cocktails the little partisan group emerged just before sunset.  Their target was a local building that was being used by the Warsaw Pact troops as a temporary headquarters.  

They set their explosives, and tossing a couple of the Molotovs inside the door of what once had been a school, their attack began.

Magdalene, her brother and Illya watched from a distance as the pyrotechnic show began. The troops swarmed onto the street, others in the group of studens hurled more Molotovs at them.  The chemical bombs  set under the military vehicles parked there, and exploded like clockwork, sending the troops helter-skelter for cover.

The now partisans took off into the night and didn’t finish running until the reached the safety of the cathedral ruins. They hid themselves in what was once sacred burial ground beneath the remnants of the holy place, surrounded by what was left of the skulls and bones of the dead.  One wall in the farthest reaches below was stacked with skull upon skull, arm and leg bones stained dark with the passage of time.

The smell of old death was unpleasant to the young people but Illya seemed unaffected by it, and positioned himself alone in a corner, munching on a piece of bread, and drinking water from a glass jar while his companions spoke, giddy with excitement.

“Anděl, you do not celebrate with us?”

“I do not rejoice in violence and death, though it is a necessary evil.”

“You are so serious,” Magdalene sat beside him, impetuously taking his hand in hers. “You have to admit, it was exhilarating, almost intoxicating.”

The girls touch, her words hit home and Illya suddenly found himself drawn to her, her innocence...naiveté or perhaps it was the explosions? They seemed to call to something inside him, though he didn’t want to admit they excited him.  Still the girl sitting with him, her touch, that look in her eyes... He could feel his breathing change, his heart beat quickened and he was filled with desire. He was randy and decided to do something about it.

Illya reached up with his hand, wrapping it around the back of her neck and drew her face closer to his.

“Now this _..._ is intoxicating,”  He kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth.  Illya pulling his other hand free of hers, he cupped her face on either side, gently touching her with his fingers.

For a moment the two stared into each others eyes, drinking each other in and realizing what they both wanted. The sexual tension between them was obvious.

Magdalene moved back, at first surprised by his impulsiveness, though she would have been hard pressed to admit to deny she like being kissed by him.   There was a burning feeling of pleasure in her lower extremities and she knew she wanted to be with this handsome blond man, even though she didn’t know him.

                                                    

           

She snuggled into Illya’s arms, and there she waited until the others were asleep. Once all was quiet, the girl slipped down beneath his blanket, unzipping his trousers and releasing him to her mouth.

Illya closed his eyes, fighting his urge to moan. After several minutes of being pleasured, he ducked beneath the blanket as well and unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her beautiful white breasts to his mouth. He began to tease her nipples with his lips and tongue, bringing them to attention, while his fingers reached down beneath her skirt and gently explored her warmth. Finally Magda pushed his hand away, sliding herself over on top of her lover.  As he entered her, she too fought back her moan.

Magda gyrated her hips while Illya rhythmically moved with her, becoming faster as their passions rose. They had to be careful lest they awaken the others but as Magda reached orgasm, she gasped his name, "Anděl!"

He held his hand over her mouth to muffle her voice until she quieted with a deep sigh. It was then the Russian pulled from within her at the last second.  Illya let go, arching his back and losing himself in his euphoria as he climaxed.  It was then he completely relaxed, knowing the technical reasons as to why that happened; it was the body simply releasing neurohormones and endorphins.  At the moment he didn't give a tinker's damn about science of the afterglow from good sex, only that he felt utterly content.

Illya and Magda remained under the blanket, kissing a few more times and laughing softly as they readjusted their clothing; snuggling together, they no longer cared if anyone saw them or not.

Minures later he was sound asleep, safely resting in the arms of Magdalene Hruska.

 

 

* ref “Beginnings”

 


	4. Chapter 4

After three a.m. all power was cut and the city lights went out, but now with the coming of the dawn, life was returning as was the electricity.

Someone turned on a small radio, and one by one the tired group of young partisans awoke, huddling together around it in the church basement to listen to the news that was finally being broadcast.

_“Czechoslovakia was occupied at 11 p.m. two days ago by troops of the Soviet Union and four of its Warsaw Pact allies in a series of swift land and air movements. Airborne troops and paratroopers surrounded the building of the Communist party Central Committee, along with five tanks. At least 25 tanks were seen in the city so far._

_Starting shortly after midnight an airlift of Soviet and other Warsaw Pact aircraft flew troops into Prague.  This invasion had been well planned and coordinated; simultaneously with the border crossing by ground forces, a Soviet airborne division took control of Ruzyne International Airport in the early hours of the invasion._

_It began with a special flight from Moscow which carried more than 100 plain clothes agents. They quickly secured the airport and prepared the way for the huge forthcoming airlift, in which An-12 transport aircraft began arriving and unloading Soviet airborne troops equipped with artillery and light tanks._

_As the operation at the airport continued, columns of tanks and motorized rifle troops headed toward Prague and other major centers, meeting no organized resistance as the government and people of Czechoslovakia have been caught ill-prepared. This morning  aircraft were still heard landing and taking off._

_Soviet troops began shooting at demonstrators outside the Prague radio building this morning. Several persons have been reported killed. Unconfirmed reports said that two Czechoslovak soldiers and a woman were killed by Bulgarian tank fire in front of the this building._

_Reuters reported. C.T.K. the Czechoslovak press agency, was quoted by United Press International as having said that citizens were throwing themselves in front of the tanks in an attempt to block the seizure of the city._

_Confusion has been caused in the capital by leaflets dropped from unidentified aircraft asserting that Antonin Novotny, the President of Czechoslovakia who was deposed in March by the Communist liberals, has been pushed out by a "clique." The leaflets said that Mr. Novotny remains the country's legal President._

_Prague radio, is still in the hands of adherents of the Communist liberals, and we now broadcast an appeal to the population in the name of Alexander Dubček, the party First Secretary to go to work as usual this morning._

_These may be the last reports you will hear because the technical facilities in our hands are insufficient...it is possible we will be shut down._

_The announcer continued,”Czechoslovaks must heed the orders of the Presidium of the Central Committee, which is in continuing session even though the building is surrounded by foreign units._

_We remain loyal to President Ludvik Svoboda and Mr.Dubček._

_At present, the whereabouts of the first Secretary, President and their associates are not known._

_In any event, the invasion was evidently prompted put an end to the Dubček experiment in democracy under Communism that had been initiated in January._

_The expectation is that the occupying forces will sponsor the establishment of a new regime that would be more amenable to orthodox Communist views of Moscow and its partners._

_At present there are approximately  5,000 United States citizens in Czechoslovakia at this time, of whom about 1,500 are tourists and 400 are delegates to an international geological congress._

_Shirley Temple Black, the former actress, is among the Americans at the Hotel Alcron here._

_Soviet troops have sealed all border exits to Austria. Trains are not running and airline operations have been halted._

_We ask that all citizens remain calm…”_ *

 

There was nothing said about the violence or any resistance activity, much to the little partisan group's disappointment.

“Of course they would not broadcast such information,” Illya shrugged. “What they are saying is being controlled no doubt. Anything indicating resistance would only encourage it.”

Hugo stared at him, wondering who this fellow was? He’d looked like a mousy school teacher, but he was far from that. Could he be a Russian plant? That thought made the young man even warier of this man his sister had dubbed ‘angel.’

The rest of the day was spent working on more incendiaries, and Hugo kept his eye on Anděl, catching his glances towards Magda, and her towards him.

Hugo finally cornered Illya, “I see you watching my sister...if you have any ideas about her, forget it.”

“Your sister is a grown woman and has a mind and a body of her own,” Illya snapped back, “She has already given herself to me.” Why he said that he did not know, as it felt as if it had gone against his grain. Sex was a private thing…

 _“Proč jute kurva prase_why you fucking pig!”_ Hugo cursed, charging at Illya. He plowed into him, shoving him back against the wall, but in the blink of an eye, the man he knew as Anděl, had him in a headlock and forced down to his knees.

“I could easily snap your neck Hugo, do not resist. What goes on between your sister and me is our business and not yours. You understand?” Illya whispered through gritted teeth.

Hugo was barely able to nod, and gasped for air as he was released.

“Do not trifle with me, or you will regret it,” Illya coldly threatened him.

After things calmed, they returned to the business of the explosives. Once he’d shown Hugo and the others what to do, Illya and the group again set about attacking the military posts in the area.

 

It was after the final attack of the night when a monstrous Soviet tank appeared on the scene. Hugo managed to slip one of the chemical bombs down the shaft of the large tank gun, making it split in the subsequent explosion. Someone paraded past, proudly waving a Czech flag as onlookers cheered.  The celebration was halted when a second tank appeared and fired, hitting a wall behind the crowd, and it collapsed on several of them...including Illya. 

He stumbled as he crawled out from beneath the pile of bricks, his head bloodied, and was helped to escape the fracas by some of the locals who quickly became involved in helping their new found few freedom fighters.

The Hruskas, Illya and the others returned to their safe haven in the ruins of the Cathedral and there Illya fell into an unconscious sleep. His dreams returned, more vivid and violent than the previous nights.

Magdalene stayed by his side, keeping a damp cloth on his head.  She’d cleaned his wound and stitched it, but feared her handsome Anděl would not awaken. She listened as he mumbled in his sleep...what sounded like English at first, but he then spoke in Russian. He called out the name ‘Napoleon’ several times.

  _Illya was running down an endless road, but it seemed as though he was moving in slow motion, with those after him coming closer and closer. He heard a voice call, not his mothers but a man._

_“Illya, tovarisch here! You’ll be safe with my moy brat! Come on, you can make it!”_

_“Napoleon? "  He called, seeing his friend ascend into the air at the controls of a helicopter and watched in horror as it was blown up ._

Kuryakin gasped as he woke with a start, his eyes blinking as he focused.

Magda was there at his side again ministering to Illya’s injuries...she leaned forward trying to kiss him but he turned his face aside, avoiding her lips.

“Anděl what is wrong? Your your head, is it bad?”

“No Magda it is not bad...but," he hesitated. "My name is not Anděl,” he hiked himself up to a sitting position, feeling his stitches with his hand.“My name is Illya. Illya Kuryakin. The blow to my head has brought back my memory.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. "That is a Ruský name…you have remembered?” Now his speaking in Russian in his sleep made sense to her.

"Yes it is, but I am not a part of this invading force if that is what you are thinking. I am, however, an enforcement agent. I work for a peacekeeping organization called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. It is an international organization dedicated to fighting evil around the world.”

Magda didn’t know what to say to that at first...but you are Russian, how could you…”

“Suffice to say it is a long story for another time. I was here on an assignment when this hell broke lose. I was on that train trying to escape across the border to Austria and there meet my partner who was also here on assignment but in another part of the country.”

“You called out a name...Napoleon. Is that your friend’s name?”

“Yes it is and I must meet him.”

“That explains why you knew what you did with the explosives,” Hugo stepped forward after eavesdropping on the conversation and feeling somewhat relieved that Illya had not been a spy for the Kremlin in their midst.

“Yes I suppose it does,” Illya reached out, offering his hands to him. “No hard feelings Hugo?”

“At least not for now, “ the young man shrugged, accepting Kuryakin’s gesture of peace and making his own gesture as he held out bread, cheese and a bottle of homemade _Becherovka,_ an herbal bitters often drunk as a digestive aid, with a strong ginger or cinnamon flavor.

“You are Russian yet you help us Illya...why,” the blue-eyed Magdalene finally asked as she passed the crude glass bottle to him after taking a swig from it.

“My loyalty is to U.N.C.L.E. and not my former Soviet masters. This aggression is unwarranted, and needs to be stopped, though I know I cannot do that. What I did with my explosives helped to slow it a bit. That will at least allow some people to escape to safety. One can only hope NATO or the United Nations will try to step in.”

“Cannot this U.N.C.L.E. do anything?”

“No, I am afraid not. We cannot interfere in the politics of other nations.”

“This is so unfair,” Hugo grumbled. He kicked at a dusty piece of wood, sending the particles into the air around them.

“ _Vše je spravedlivý v lásce a válce,_ ” Illya offered a proverb.

“ _All is fair in love and war?_ How can you say that?” Hugo demanded.

“What, you think war should be fair? How would you make it so?” Illya was becoming annoyed at Hugo’s naivete. “War means death and suffering, to eliminate that would make it no longer a thing to be avoided.”

“What if governments would fight battles…like in a game? Like chess?” Hugo asked.

“And what would be the consequences of such a thing... imaginary deaths, the loss of territory as a chess piece falls, a war without violence, compartmentalized and reduced to a numbers game? Would real people be sacrificed and executed as casualties of the game? Lose a pawn and thousands die? Would that do?” Illya huffed, thinking how absurd this conversation had become or perhaps was it the drink talking.

“War cannot be reduced to such a neat little package tied up in a ribbon, it’s horrors must remain so that we, the human race, can learn from them...learn that it is something to be avoided at all costs.  If this lesson is not taken to heart, then we will eventually destroy ourselves and the world along with it.”

 _“Zadnim umom krepok. Khoroshaya myslya prikhodit oposlya_it is easy to be wise after the event,”_ Magdalene nervously laughed, speaking in Russian.

Illya smiled, “Yes hindsight is twenty-twenty as my partner likes to say. Still I must go and I suggest you go with me.   _Dvum smertyam ne by vat , a odnoy ne minovat' i komu na meste ne siditsya, tot cobra ne nazhivet. –A man dies but once and a rolling stone gathers no moss,_  “ Illya traded one last proverb with her as he stood. “I for one am not staying around here to die or gather moss. It is time for me to leave as I have broken enough rules helping you in your cause, which I fear at the moment has become a very lost one.  Your government will find a way to appease the Kremlin...be patient and live.”

He grabbed an old dirty workman’s coat hanging on a nearby wall hook, and a cap that was with it. This would at least hide his black turtleneck and help him blend in. The hat would cover his blond hair as for some reason people in this area, though fair complected did not have the straw colored hair as he did. The less he stood out, the better.

“We need to leave before the curfew goes into effect,” he told them as he moved toward the rickety wooden staircase. Otherwise it will make travel more difficult than I already suspect it will be.”

“What curfew?” Hugo asked.

“The one that your invaders will no will have doubt put into effect now that we have wreaked some havoc for them.” He climbed several steps before he looked at the sister and brother again.

Magdalene and Hugo remained seated, huddled on the floor and not making a move.

“Are you coming or not?” Illya asked.

“No we are staying to fight. We understand why you want to leave...this is not your home or your fight," she said.

“I would stay to help if I knew there was hope, but there is none.  You cannot fight against heavy armored vehicles and well-armed troops.  Better you live to fight another day when there is a chance of winning.”

His reasoning fell on deaf ears as they were adamant about staying and continuing as a resistance group in their town. He shook his head at their foolishness.  Yet part of him wanted to remain  and help, but that was an emotional response, not a rational one.  It was true, this was not his home, but if there would be a remote possibility of success he would stay.  For once Illya Kuryakin decided not to play the hero in a lost cause.  If he was going to die, it would be for a chance at winning and not just to commit suicide.

Magdalene could see the disappointment in his face and finally rose, walking over to him.

“Illya thank you for your help. Godspeed in wherever it is you are going.” She stepped up, giving him a peck on the cheek and impulsively Illya wrapped his arms around her, embracing her for  the last time.

When their lips finally partner he whispered to her, “Stay safe. I hope we will meet again someday under better circumstances. Farewell.”

He released her, walking up the stairs and out the basement door, not looking back. His instinct or perhaps his sixth sense, told him  never see her or Hugo again, as they would no doubt be dead in a few days, or perhaps weeks.

Their foolishness would be their end, though he hoped in his heart that wouldn’t happen.

Illya felt ashamed at the aggression being taken against these people. Being a former Soviet, and having been indoctrinated into the beliefs behind such things; it had taken the young U.N.C.L.E. agent time to free himself of that attitude, and sense of entitlement.

Once away from it all, he could see the Socialist way of thinking, though ideal in theory, just wasn’t working...yet he could do nothing to change it. It was something his former countrymen would have to eventually realize on their own and shed that belief in order to free themselves of the Communist mentality. The Czechs had taken their first steps towards that but again, it was something the power of the Kremlin and Brezhnev would never permit.

He loved his home still, and hoped he would live to see it’s people free again at last...but at the moment it was his own freedom he needed to worry about. The last thing Illya Kuryakin needed was to be picked up by Soviet troops or secret police.

His helping the resistance fighters here did not exactly put him in the safest of positions. It had not been his assignment and technically he’d broken a number of rules by interfering. If he made it back to New York he would no doubt have some explaining to do to Alexander Waverly.

  


 

* excerpts from actual radio broadcasts that took place during the invasion

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was bright, making the Russian squint as he shaded his eyes with his hand. The streets weren’t completely empty...there were a few people scurrying along the sidewalk.  

Mostly _stará dámy_old ladies_ carrying bags of potatoes and whatever edibles they could find to feed their families. No men anywhere, which would make Kuryakin stand out in spite of his best efforts to simply blend in.

A large military lorry came round a corner, the back of which was filled with men, and Illya ducked into an alley, but it was too late as he’d been spotted.

The truck brakes squealed to a halt and several soldiers dressed in Soviet uniforms jumped down following after him.

 _"Ty! Přestaňte, kde jste! Ruce nad hlavu!_you! Stop where you are! Put your hands up!”_ One of them ordered, speaking Czech.

Illya turned slowly as he complied, changing his expression.  His entire demeanor was transformed to look as if he were feebleminded. He smiled at them, oozing pure innocence and mindlessness.

“What’s your name?”

“Tibor...what is your name?” Illya asked in an infantile voice. “Can you play with me, nobody will play with me. Everybody is running away and I want to play. Why is everybody so afraid?”

That stopped the soldiers in their tracks, and they stared at each other, then back at Illya.

“Awww, never mind this one,” one said to the other, “he is too stupid to work. He has the mind of a child.”

“But he has the body of a man, surely he could?” The other protested.

“Leave him.”

“But we need to...

Illya froze, fearing the worst.

“No, I had a brother who was like this one. It would not be right...he’s just a poor soul.”

“Soul? Better not let the bosses hear you say that. It goes against what we’ve been taught.”

“I know that, now go and keep your mouth shut Lazar.” The soldier looked at Illya, biting his lower lip.

“It is all right Tibor you can put down your arms. You should go home now, it is not safe on the streets. Do you know where your house is?”

“Yes,” Illya answered timidly.

“Who is there?”

_Babička.”_

“Then you go home to your _grandmothe_ r Tibor.”

“All right. I will go home now. Bye. Could you come back and play with me later?

“Maybe Tibor...now go.”

Illya innocently waved at them, still acting the part, all the while grinning like a fool until the lorry pulled away. Once alone he slumped against the alley wall, drained momentarily from having to swallow his fear.

.

 

The refugees walked for what seemed like hours and rested when the others stopped. There were no words spoken as water was passed among them, and raw potatoes. There were enough for everyone to get one as a few had the forethought to grab some potato sacks.  What they had would last them a few days if they were careful.  It would have made more sense to cook them to make soup, but they couldn’t chance lighting a fire and being seen.

Napoleon peeked at the little girl in his arms, still wrapped in his jacket. She’d gone terribly pale, and he touched her face with his hand...it was ice cold.  Solo checked her throat for a pulse, desperately searching for one, but there was none. She was gone.

He laid her on the ground beside him, and lowered his head, covering his eyes as he mourned the death of this innocent child.

Several women approached him, sensing what had happened and touched their hands to his arm and shoulder, offering him words of comfort in their language.  He understood from their tone of voice that was what they were saying.

Several of the men helped the American bury the child, and prayers were said over her, though no one remember her or her name. Napoleon called her _‘Nevina_ ’ one of the few words he knew in their language, meaning ‘innocence.’

It was getting dark, and the group decided to rest for the night, as the women and children were tiring. A few of the men would scout ahead, and make plans for an early morning start.

Napoleon nestled himself against a tree, and a small child approached him, handing him and Andrasko blankets.

“Thank you,” he smiled, speaking in English.

“ _Jste vítáni,”_ the boy smiled back at him and waved as he walked away.

Solo wrapped himself in the meager covering, thankful to have it to ward off the chill of the night, as he tried to forget about his hunger pangs. His thoughts were disturbed by a muffled chirping; his communicator was calling to him.

“Illya?” Napoleon opened it anxiously.

“No sadly not, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly answered.”What is your status?”

“I think we are getting close the border sir. Our group of refugees has grown to at least fifty now.”

 

There was a momentary pause. “Yes Mr. Solo you are indeed nearing the Austrian border, and from your signal we put you at less than ten miles away. Get across as quickly as you can. The occupying troops have already closed the official border crossing route, so you will have to go around them I’m afraid, making your journey all the more arduous, and dangerous to say the least. Your presence there, should you be captured, could be most troublesome if you are taken, though there is a remote chance the Soviets might simply return you to us, given their pact with U.N.C.L.E. However, that is not a chance I wish to take.”

“And my partner sir? What if they capture him?”

Waverly sighed, “That is problematic as we both know there are elements in the East who would have Mr. Kuryakin shot as a traitor. All we can do is hope he is alive and makes it out of the country. His ability to speak the language will be most efficacious.”

“Yes sir, my thinking exactly.”

Suddenly Waverly seemed distracted. “Hold Mr. Solo if you please?”

The communicator went silent.

 

Illya  at last round himself outside the city, stumbling upon a staging area for the invading troops. There were tanks, armored personnel carriers and two Mi-1 light utility helicopters lined up, and all for the taking.  His mind began to race as he formulated a strategy.

He hid himself, waiting for the right opportunity to enact a plan to ambush a pilot, and after twenty minutes of waiting, his patience paid off. Illya leapt out from his hiding place, catching the man off guard and karate-chopping him in the neck.  He dragged the officer off to the side and quickly changed clothes with him.

Now with his blond hair showing and in uniform, he blended in perfectly with his fellow Russians.

Kuryakin walked slowly towards one of the choppers and as he attempted to climb up he was challenged by a soldier.

 _“Chto vy dumayete vy delayete tovarishch kapitan_what do you think you are doing Comrade Captain?”_ The Russian guard barked at him.

“ _Ne v takom tone so mnoy lichnoye . Mne nuzhno prinyat' vertolet na proverki tekhnicheskogo obsluzhivaniya_Don't take that tone with me private. I need to take the helicopter up for a maintenance check…. do you have anything to say about that?”_

‘No, Comrade Captain.”

“Good, then go about your business and step away from the blades before you get hit,” Illya spoke with authority in his voice. “ I will not report you for your insolent tone this time.”

No Comrade...I mean yes. Thank you Comrade Captain,” the soldier saluted him.

Illya climbed into the pilot’s seat, and after taking a quick look at the instrument to refresh his memory, he started the engine.  Taking the controls; he had the chopper airborne within minutes and as he circled the field, he breathed a sigh of relief that no one seemed to take notice. As he flew off over the forest, he checked his heading, making a beeline south towards the Austrian border.

He fiddled with the radio, finding a very specific frequency that U.N.C.L.E. used for emergency purposes...one that no one, not even T.H.R.U.S.H. knew about it.

The radio squealed it’s protest until he found the channel, and doing so he spoke into the headset microphone.

“This is Illya Kuryakin number 2 Section II U.N.C.L.E. Northwest. Agent ID number 426267.  Please respond.” He repeated that message until someone answered.

“Yes Agent Kuryakin, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“I am at present piloting a Soviet Mi-1 helicopter heading towards the Austrian border from Czechoslovakia, and might need some air support should they realize I’ve stolen the chopper."

“We can have an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter armed with rocket launchers near the border but might not be able to cross over…”

“Not cross the border? Are you serious? I have already violated protocol, so what is one more violation if they cross to escort me? Get me Mr. Waverly on the overseas relay and fast.” His tone of voice was authoritative and threatening enough, at least he hoped it was.

“Ugh...yes sir, one moment please.”

 

“Mr. Kuryakin,” the Old Man answered,” I’m pleased to know you are still among the living. We have your coordinates and you should be nearing the border in another forty minutes. One of our helicopters will arrive to escort you as you get closer.”

“Sir, Mr. Solo?”

“Is alive and well, traveling on foot with a small group of refugees heading the same direction as you will be.  I will give you his coordinates and you can retrieve him along with his companion.  Once in Austria I will expect you at our field office in Horn and your report shortly thereafter.”

“Companion sir?” For some reason Illya instantly envisioned a platinum blonde.

“Professor Andrasko, the man he was sent to escort to the West.”

“Yes sir,” Kuryakin smiled, being pleasantly surprised and relieved to hear Napoleon was alive. After receiving his coordinates, Illya banked a sharp turn, heading to his rendezvous with his partner.

.

Waverly flicked another toggle switch on in control panel.

“Mr. Solo,” I have just received a communication from Mr. Kuryakin on our emergency frequency.  He is, as we speak, heading for a rendezvous with you at your location and should arrive in approximately forty minutes. He’s flying a Russian helicopter by the way.”

“That’s good news sir, thank you. There’s a clearing about a hundred yards from me, he can land there.”

“Yes Mr. Solo, as I told Mr. Kuryakin, once you and the professor have reached our field office in Horn, I will expect your full report. Out.”

Napoleon looked around at the people he was with, feeling guilty he and Andrasko would be heading off scott free while the others were left behind…

After telling Drahomir to wait along the tree line, keeping under cover, he walked off to the clearing, and waited. When he heard the thwup-thwup-thwup of the helicopter blades as they cut through the air, Solo waved his arms above his head, signaling to the chopper.  He watched as it gracefully descended to a soft landing.

 Illya left the chopper as the blades slowly rotated, and jumped down to greet his friend and partner; the two men pulling each other into a bear hug.

“I was afraid you were dead tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned, as he stepped back to look at the Russian. “Well look at you, a Captain.”

“Well look at you...a _refugee_ ,” Illya grinned; not bothering to remind his partner that Captain was actually his current rank, but in the Soviet navy.

”Come, let us talk later as we need to get out of here. I did, after all, steal our transportation, and I am sure it has been discovered by now.”

“How much room have you got in that thing?” Solo asked.

“There are only four seats, why?”

“I was hoping we might take a few of my traveling companions with us.” He nodded in the direction of the forest edge, seeing frightened faces peering out at them. “Come translate for me tovarisch.”

Though frightened because of the Russian uniform they stood and listened as Illya explained who they were and that they proposed to take only a few of them in the helicopter across the border to safety.

That brought a muffled moan among the refugees. Still unsure if they could trust a man who was a Russian, in a Soviet uniform no less, and flying a Soviet helicopter.

Finally Napoleon volunteered to stay, to let one more person go in the chopper, but Illya vehemently protested.

There was discussion among the refugees, talking secretly amongst themselves.

“Napoleon we must get going. We cannot risk staying longer as we may be found and shot down. An U.N.C.L.E. escort is on the way, but it will do no good if we cannot meet it.”

“All right chum,” Napoleon sighed his resignation.

One of the men stepped forward, saying his pregnant wife and infant son should go with them. Another woman stepped out, urging forward her two small girls. A third older woman reached out, passing a toddler to Andrasko.  

She spoke to Drahomir, telling him this was her grandson, and she wanted him to live. This was his best chance.  

“Jozef, his name,”she spoks in broken English to Solo. “Save children.”

“Napoleon we must go now,” Illya practically pleaded. “We cannot handle more than this...there are weight limitations.”

They helped the woman and children onboard, and lastly the professor and as the helicopter rose in the air, a rocket flew past it, exploding in the woods.

 _“Chyort_ ,” Illya cursed,” They have found us!”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Illya pushed the chopper to it’s limits, flying evasively as the attack helicopter pursed them from behind, continuing to fire what he supposed Bullets strafed the rear of the

Mi-1, barely missing the fuel tank.

“We will not make it. I am unable to lose them.” he yelled over the voices of the terrified passengers.

“I need to get this outside,” Andrasko blurted out, holding up his long silver box.  

 “We cannot chance that,” Illya barked, trying to maintain control of the chopper.

“Please, it may help save us!”

“What is it?” Napoleon asked.

“It contains my robotic drones.” He held up one of them, not much bigger than his fingertip; strangely it resembled a dragonfly.

“What good will that do? It is too small,” Illya countered.

“But hundreds of them are not. If I release them I can fly them in front of the other helicopter and help distract their pilot enough to perhaps permit us to get away.” 

 “I’ll do it,” Napoleon called, passing back the boy still in his arms in exchange for the box.

“Everyone hold on!” He opened the door beside him, feeling the air pressure change and begin to suck out of the cabin.  Sticking his hand outside, he opened silver box and watched as the tiny drones disappeared as they were whisked away by the wind.

                                                                              

"Done Professor!" Solo shouted, pulling the door shut.

Andrasko directed the dragonfly-like robots towards the other chopper with a small remote control in his hand. His mechanical creatures seemed to take on a life on of their own, zig-zagging and weaving in front of the cockpit of the other Russian aircraft. The Soviets tried shooting at them, but the robots were too small.

Illya veered sharply, banking to the right and hoping the distraction was enough, but without warning another helicopter appeared, rising and hovering right in front them.

They were done for.

Napoleon closed his eyes, holding little Jozef’s hand, as the boy was crying. They had nowhere to go. “Don’t worry sweetheart, it’ll be over soon,” he whispered as he pulled the trembling child back into his arms, holding him closely.

A rocket launched, flying past them and headed directly towards the attack helicopter behind the Mi-1, hitting it dead on. The pursing Soviet chopper exploded in a spectacular a ball of flame, with what was left of it raining down to the ground.

“Napoleon open your eyes,” Illya’s voice was filled with relief. “It is our U.N.C.L.E. escort!"

“This is English Bulldog to Wayward Russian do you copy?” A voice came over the radio. It was Mark Slate. “Oy, you gents ready to get out of here or what?”

“English Bulldog and Wayward Russian, that is the best you can do Mark?” Illya laughed this time.

“I thought they were rather clever call signs mate.”

“Mark how many passengers can you carry?” Solo interrupted.

“Passengers...well I guess if we squeeze ‘em in I can probably handle a dozen or so, maybe a few more. Why?”

“We have some refugees to rescue,” Napoleon answered.

“Wot? Mr. Waverly didn’t say anything about that.”

“A change of plans Bulldog, Napoleon’s specialty...flying by the seat of one’s pants,” Illya spoke into his microphone.

The choppers landed, and more of the refugees climbed aboard the Huey helicopter. By the time they were done, they’d crammed nearly thirty passengers inside the two choppers. Since most of them were children, the weight didn’t exceed the pay load capacity...by much.

When the helicopters were filled to capacity and then some, that left the only the male refugees behind to make their way to the border on foot.

Twenty men and a few older boys stood together at the edge of the forest, and sadly watched as the Russian helicopter and Huey rose into the sky. They were elated their loved ones were being taken to safety, but fearful they’d never see them again. Not knowing what dangers they faced, they turned...disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

Promises had been made and directions given as to where to meet. It was too risky for a return trip and the men left behind, filled with hope their families would be safe now were now filled with a greater sense of purpose and determination to make it to the border.  Now they would have family waiting there for them.

The journey for the helicopters would still not an easy one as there was the possibility they’d be shot at, or again pursued in the air by the Soviets. Thought the fact that the Huey was being accompanied by a Russian helicopter might just be their ace in the hole.

Illya received one radio signal from the ground, some Russian Colonel demanding to know what was going on. Kuryakin wryly smiled, responding in his native language that he was escorting an Austrian helicopter back home as it had gotten lost and strayed where it should not have gone. Rather than shoot it down, Illya explained it was better to avoid an international incident and bring it back across the border.

The Colonel complimented Illya on his commendable thinking, asking his name. To which Illya replied “ Yuri Gagarin,” suppressing a chuckle as he did so.

"Ga _garin? By svyazany s velikogo letchika i kosmonavta, vozmozhno_you are related to the great hero, our pilot-cosmonaut, perhaps?_

 _“Da , dal'niy rodstvennik_yes a distant relative,” I_ llya expanded his little lie with a grin. "I was named for him."

_“Ya privetstvuyu vas tovarishch Gagarin dlya nosheniya na gorduyu traditsiyu . Vy kreditnaya to Rodiny_I salute you Comrade Gagarin for carrying on a proud tradition. You are a credit tо the motherland."_

_“Spacibo Comrade Colonel.”_

Illya turned off his microphone finally allowing himself some laughter, though it was more of relief.  “So did you hear that? I am a credit to the motherland. I think we are, as you say Napoleon...home free.”

Solo shook his head thinking only his partner could find some dry humor in a tense situation like this.

They made it across the border and once the choppers received clearance to land, the passengers were unloaded. The refugees were escorted to a camp set up to accommodate the astounding numbers of  those fleeing the invasion, where their loved-ones would find them when they too arrived.

 Some had family in Austria who needed to be contacted, and there at the refugee camp they could do so. Once they were all settled and safe Napoleon and Illya said their goodbyes, with many teary-eyed thank you’s and hugs given to them.

Little Josef ran to Napoleon, wrapping his arms around Solo’s legs. The agent knelt, lifting the boy up into his arms, and the child leaned forward, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

 _“Děkuji vám,”_ Josef said before wiggling out of the American’s grasp and slipping to the ground.

There was no need for a translation and he watched as the child ran off to the waiting arms of a woman...most likely a friend of the family.

The American gave a little wave, but Josef didn’t see it as he‘d disappeared among the sea of people.

“Getting  a little sentimental?” Illya asked, walking up behind his partner.

“Yes, and what of it?”

“Nothing wrong with it. It does feel better when we have a thing of substance to show we’ve done some good at the end of the day.”

 “True chum,” Napoleon sighed.” How often do we complete a successful mission, receiving a ‘job well done’ but not getting to see the results first hand.

“Hey you blokes, I think its time we get to headquarters,” Mark Slate called to them. “They sent a car for us.”

Illya and Napoleon turned, heading towards Mark and the black Mercedes sedan, looking at it then at each other.

“You thinking what I think you’re thinking tovarisch?” Napoleon saw the twinkle in his partner’s eyes.

“But of course. You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“What are you up to now? Mark asked cautiously.

“We have another flight to make; start up the Huey and I will warm up the Mi-1,” Illya smiled. “ We have twenty more refugees to rescue. I will fly as your military escort...a medical emergency perhaps?”

“Right mate,” Mark winked.” I’ll get a red-cross sticker on the chopper in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

.

After another daring rescue, they made it back to Austria with Solo, Kuryakin and Slate finally heading to the field office in Horn. After a brief medical check up, it was time to give their report via video conference to Alexander Waverly.

When the number one and number two agents didn’t appear for their debrief, the British agent stepped up to the plate, offering his part of the report and an explanation as to their absence.

“Where the devil are they Mr. Slate?” Waverly demanded.

“They’re asleep in medical sir.  As soon as their exams were done, they both laid back on the tables and just passed out. Presumably it's due to exhaustion… though I understand the doctors want to keep Mr. Kuryakin there for observation as he suffered a mild concussion and lost his memory for a day or two.

“I suppose that’s understandable given their recent ordeals...nearly being lost in a war, well almost a war,”  Alexander Waverly paused for a moment, remembering the blitz in London when he was a young man. The feeling of terror and exhaustion that filled the populace was almost overwhelming at first, but once they gained their footing; the people of Great Britain took it all with typical British aplomb and stiff-upper lips.

“Very well Mr. Slate, let them rest for now. Job well done getting them out. Go have a spot of tea and relax young man. I’ll have an assignment for you all within the next few days.”

"Thank you sir. Good night.” Mark smiled. A cup of tea would be nice, but a beer would be better, and that was the plan. He smiled to himself, knowing he’d gotten away with a bold-faced lie to Waverly...something that rarely ever happened.  Part of it was actually the truth as the Medical personnel had tried confining Kuryakin to the infirmary due to the residuals from an apparent concussion, but Illya would hear nothing of it.

Mark stepped through the open doorway, viewing the familiar gunmetal and grey corridor; finding Illya leaning against the opposite wall with a sports jacket slung over his shoulder. He appeared somewhat refreshed and not the exhausted man Slate described to Waverly.

Kuryakin had showered, shaved and was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a black tee-shirt, though there were a few visible bruises on his forearms.

“Better cover up those arms mate before we head out. Wouldn’t want to scare of any pretty birds if we meet some, right?”

Illya wordlessly slipped into his jacket, flashing one of his crooked smiles. "Yes, birds and not those of the Thrush variety I hope."

“That's a given. So ready for that beer mate,” Mark grinned, “and a good meal?"

“I have been waiting with bated breath my friend. It will be good to relax.” Illya slapped the Brit on the shoulder. “By the way did I tell you that was good shooting today?”

“My pleasure guv. Don’t get to use a rocket launcher too often. Would have been nice to use the 50 caliber machine gun too but I decided that would have been a bit of overkill; speaking of which... where’s that partner of yours?”

Illya rolled his eyes, “Where do you think? “

“Elke or Inge?”

“That I am not sure. Come my friend a beer garden awaits us…we will leave Napoleon to his own devices.”

“Got that right mate!”

The two walked away from the conference room, not noticing that the doors had delayed closing. The video screen faded back into view, with the image of Alexander Waverly smiling as he nodded to himself, taking a drag from his pipe and releasing a smoke ring in the air.

“Let them relax for now; you were young once old boy, ” he said to himself before he finally cut the video feed.

 

A week later, Solo and Kuryakin now sat at the conference table in New York, and were listening to their boss update them on the situation in Czechoslovakia.

“There has been a wave of immigration from there since the invasion, most seem to be highly qualified people. At first the numbers were in the hundreds of thousand but that sort of exodus has since been stopped. Countries in the West, however, have allowed these refugees to immigrate without complication.

Drahomir Andrasko, Mr. Solo, is doing quite well in his new position with the United States Government, though after hearing of his innovative drones in your report it would have been most efficacious if I’d have been able to convince him to join Research and Development with us.  However, we cannot offer the same remuneration as can the Americans.”

Waverly held up a piece of paper, quoting some numbers from it.

“During the invasion by the Warsaw Pact armies, seventy-two Czechs and Slovaks have beeb killed and hundreds wounded. In spite of his deft ability to not publicly criticize Communist ideals, his Soviet masters, and their puppets who were his predecessors; Alexander Dubček was arrested along with the President and taken to Moscow along with several of his colleagues. I’m not sure how to interpret the fact that he and most of the reformers were returned to Prague a few days later and Mr. Dubček has retained his post as the Party's First Secretary. How long he will remain in the position is doubtful, I suspect.”

“Given the fact that his country was invaded and punished like a master chastising his mongrel dog. It seems inevitable that Mr. Dubček will eventually suffer the ire of the Kremlin, once a suitable replacement for him has been approved by Moskva,” Illya added. “The invasion, on the other hand, could have been far worse.”

“Yes, quite,” Waverly continued.”The United States has made it clear crystal clear it will not intervene on behalf of the Czechs, and have therefore given the USSR a free hand to do as it pleases.  Only time will tell to see if the liberalization initiated by the First Secretary will last. Perhaps though, this may be an indication of the dissatisfaction with the influence of the Kremlin...it may spur other countries to do the same. I suspect this is what the powers that be in Moscow fear the most.”

The Old Man took a moment to tap his pipe into an empty crystal ashtray set in front of him at his console.

“Perhaps this is just the start, albeit an unsuccessful one, of a thawing of the Cold War,” Napoleon interjected. “Could it be a precursor to the fall of Communism?”

“I don’t think Dubček was trying to do that Mr. Solo, just to soften it a bit, modifying it as it were. He never indicated that he wished to do away with his

Socialistic beliefs. The working class would remain intact, but with less exploitation perhaps than before, giving freedoms the Czech people haven’t seen in a very long time.”

“Freedom,” Illya said almost wistfully,” it can be very alluring. I speak personally in that regard; once you have it, you do not wish to lose it."

“Precisely Mr. Kuryakin. Now that the Czechs have tasted it; they might not be so willing to give it up again. I believe we are witnessing the beginning of a great time of change young man.”

“One could only hope, mind you a small one, but a hope none the less,” Illya responded.

“On a personal note, Mr. Kuryakin, we have not been able to ascertain the whereabout of the brother and sister about whom you inquired.  We will continue to investigate and will inform you of any findings as to their situation.”

“Thank you sir, I appreciate the consideration,” he nodded as he rose, along with Solo; leaving the conference room in silence.

.

Four weeks later he received his answer, but not the one for which he’d hoped.

Napoleon walked into the office he shared with his partner; seeing him at his desk staring blankly, seemingly lost in thought.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, knowing the man well enough to tell there was something eating at him.

“Magdalene and Hugo Hruska...the students who helped me. They...they did not make it and are dead. I tried to get them to leave, but could not convince them otherwise.”

“Hey tovarisch, you can lead a horse to water but can’t make it drink. It was their decision and they had their reasons I’m sure.”

“Why do I feel guilty then? If I had stayed they might still be alive.” Illya rubbed his face with his hands.

“And maybe you would have died too, did you think of that? Look chum, because of you fifty more people made it to safey, and yours truly was one of them. You may have lost two, but you saved many.”

Napoleon tried changing the topic. ”You know we never did celebrate our escape from that mess.”

“Because you were off with a pretty _Fräulein,_ ” Illya snickered.

“Correction... _Fräuleins,_ ” Napoleon flicked an eyebrow, recalling his pleasant evening with the frolicsome pair of buxom German beauties.

“Elke and Inge?”

Napoleon flashed a wicked smile.“Remind me to introduce you to them chum.”

“No thank you. You and I have very different tastes in women, as well as pastimes.”

“Illya you can be a real party pooper, you know that?”

“Oh please, enough of your American sayings. I am afraid to ask what ‘party pooper’ even means...it sounds so crude.”

“Then I won’t take the time to explain it to you for once,” Napoleon laughed,” though it’s not at all what I think you think you're thinking..” he paused, questioning if he’d said that right.“Tell you what, I’ll throw in dinner with that drink if it’ll help cheer you up partner mine.”

 _“Luchshe pozdno, chem nikogda_better late than never,_ ” Illya said in his native language,”I will take you up on your offer, though I warn you it will only satisfy my hunger….maybe.” Illya stood, taking his jacket from his chair and slipped into it.

“Well that’s a start chum,” Napoleon smiled as they once again walked out the door side-by-side.

A pleasant female voice came over the public address system calling their attention.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin please report immediately to Mr. Waverly’s conference room.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Napoleon said.

“Speak for yourself,” the Russian countered with a half-smile.

 

FINE

 


End file.
